


Wooden Floors, Walls, and Windowsills

by ukulelefoot



Category: Home Fires (UK TV)
Genre: F/F, Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 01:35:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7957039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukulelefoot/pseuds/ukulelefoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teresa gets married and Alison hates herself. (Originally written for the fic exchange.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wooden Floors, Walls, and Windowsills

_Wilt thou have this man as thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, honour and keep him, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as you both may live?_

_I will._

* * *

 

You suddenly feel sick. So that’s it. She’s married and moving out.

The house always feels empty without her in it nowadays. You’ve really come to relish the company of another human being after spending so long with just Boris for company. It’ll be hard, but you promise yourself to make an effort and not shrink away again. As if she’d let you!

You turn your attention back to the ceremony and marvel at the brave face she’s putting on. Guilt creeps up on you as you realise what you’ve done to her. You’ve managed to ruin both her life and Frances’ in the same day and you feel so out of control again.

The misty rain swirls around as you and a crowd of mourners leave the church. This month has been the worst the village has seen for a long time. The plane crash took the lives of some of the community’s most valued members and you’ve been to more funerals in the past month than you ever want to experience again.

And at every funeral, there she is. Not with you, with him. She puts on a brave face, the image of a happily married woman, but you know her too well and can see that she’s uncomfortable.

As the crowd disperses after the burial, you catch her eye. She lays a hand on Nick’s arm, whispering something in his ear, and he nods. She walks over to you. You talk about how awful this situation is, how you wish for the war to be over soon. Her hand reaches for yours and she squeezes it. You hear yourself asking her to come and visit after school one day this week and she agrees before giving you a small smile and going back to her husband.

* * *

Your stomach flips when there’s a knock on the door. You rush to open it and she’s there. Looking absolutely stunning. You find yourself thinking that, were you that way inclined, you’d most definitely be attracted to her. But she’s married now. You push that thought from your mind and invite her in.

It’s just like old times. She talks about Nick, of course, but not as much as you were expecting. And you feel happier here with her than you’ve felt in the whole month since she left. You always thought you were somebody who would never have a best friend. George was in a way. She, however, crashed into your life and now you can’t think why on earth having a best friend was such a displeasing idea.

She’s still talking with you long after the sun goes down. Surely Nick will wonder why she’s not home yet. But she’s happy with you. And you’re happy with her. So you don’t push her to leave. Instead, you boil the kettle again.

Eventually, she notices it’s well gone 10pm and she panics because _there’s school tomorrow! The children won’t teach themselves their twelve times table!_

You let her go, laughing at her scattered rush to leave your house. It’s definitely more of a ‘house’ than a ‘home’ nowadays, now that she’s not there.

As she leaves, she kisses you on the cheek and hugs you tight. You’ve missed this. This feeling of belonging.

You watch her walk away. She turns back with a huge smile and a wave just before she disappears from view. And, just like that, she’s gone again. It’s just you and Boris and the deafening silence.

She comes round at least once a week after that. You appreciate it and can see that she’s not just doing it for your benefit, or to get away from Nick. She tells you she’s happy with him and you believe her. Happy doesn’t mean it’s what she wants. Happy means she’s ok with it and will stay. And she knows you know that. You’re the only person she can truly be herself with and you realise that the feeling is reciprocated. There’s something about her that makes you feel at peace.

* * *

A few months later, you’re walking through the woods with her on a frosty Saturday morning, Boris tugging at his lead whenever he sees anything move. She’s quiet today, almost unsure. She talks to you, but you can see in her face that there’s something she’s not saying. You wonder if you should ask and almost convince yourself not to, but you won’t be able to sleep tonight if you think something’s troubling her. You won’t be able to forgive yourself for ignoring that distant look in her eyes. So you ask her.

Bad move, Alison. It all comes pouring out. Nick’s getting transferred down south, she’ll have to go with him, she’s moving away. She says that she doesn’t want to leave the village, that it’s become her home. She doesn’t want to leave the friends she’s made. She doesn’t want to leave you.

By the time she stops speaking, there are tears rolling down her cheeks. She’s sat down on a fallen tree trunk and you instinctively move towards her and stroke her shoulder. This is your fault. You forced her to marry Nick because… Why did you do that? Why did you encourage her relationship with someone she didn’t love? Someone who wasn’t even the right gender.

You push your self-loathing aside for the time being and sit down next to her. You tell her that she doesn’t have to go. She could just stay here and wait for him to come back. You know it’s feeble even as you say it and the look she gives you confirms just that. Of course she has to go. How would it look for a wife not to follow her husband to wherever he was posted?

She wipes at her cheeks and pulls herself together, gives Boris a quick scratch behind the ear and turns to you. All you want to do is go back in time to before all this started. Back to when she was living with you and there weren’t any men around. But you can’t, so you take her hand and hold it tight. She almost orders you to visit her when she’s away and you say that nothing could stop you.

* * *

The night before she leaves, she comes to see you and your heart breaks because you won’t see her for at least a few months - you need to save up some money before you can afford to travel half the length of the country. She’s your best friend and she’s leaving in the morning.

All evening, you talk and cry and hug and say how much you’ll miss each other. You can’t imagine showing so much emotion to anyone else. Even with George, you kept your stiff upper lip. There’s just something about her. You don’t want to hide.

* * *

Watching the car drive away, taking her from you, your eyes tingle. The small congregation of people who gathered to wave them off go back to their lives, largely unaffected by the loss of your favourite person, and you hold back the tears. How can they just carry on? How will they manage without seeing her beautiful smile as she cycles through the village?

The wind has picked up and you shiver. Boris pulls on his leash a little, encouraging you away from your sorrow. You rip your eyes away from the last place the car was visible and traipse back to the one place you don’t want to be.

Alone again. You think maybe you should just accept that you’re meant to be alone. Everywhere you look in the house, you’re reminded of her. Every room has countless memories. It all seems different without her there. Unnecessary.

* * *

You write to her, let her know about everything she’s missing in some vague attempt to draw her back. And she replies, sending you sketches of their new house, telling you all about life in ‘ _The South_ ’, as she puts it. Your correspondence is constant, neither wanting to break the thread.

You rarely get any other post, so the sound of Spencer’s bicycle sends your stomach into a spin every time. It’s just excitement, you tell yourself. But seeing your name in her slightly scruffy handwriting makes your heart leap. And the warmth in her words is so evident that you can’t help feeling like you’ve missed out on something. She should be here with you.

Every now and then, you get out two cups and saucers, two dinner plates, set two places at the table. In the space of a year, she’s managed to change your habits and, even though she’s been gone for months, you’re still not quite used to being on your own again.

* * *

One morning, you’re sitting at your desk and staring out of the window. There should be a letter arriving today, from her. Only, it’s well past the time that Spencer would usually appear. You make yourself another cup of tea before going back to worrying. Were there any bombings near her recently? You rack your brains… Not that you can remember. She’s probably been busy, you tell yourself. And you have to believe it. Otherwise you’d go mad with worry. You don’t want to think about what a terrible thing it would be if she got killed.

Tears threaten and you try to distract yourself, but it’s to no avail. Before you can stop yourself, you’re sobbing into your hands. Life without Teresa would be hell. She saved you. Literally.

Boris nudges your leg and you lift him up onto your lap. You cry into his fur. It doesn’t faze him in the slightest - he’s seen you in this state a thousand times before.

After a while, you calm down and manage to regain some sort of composure. You stroke Boris for a bit until he gets restless and you let him go. Even your dog gets bored of you. That almost sets you off again.

The next day, there’s still no letter. You’re just about to head upstairs to get ready for bed, when there’s a panicked knock on the front door. You’re almost too tired to bother and pause on the stairs before you go to open it.

And there she is. White as a sheet, but there all the same, travel bag in tow. You nearly faint with relief to see her alive. You were starting to convince yourself that something awful had happened. She moves towards you slowly and envelops you in a hug. It feels so familiar, so right.

You sit with her on the sofa and fire questions at her. _Why are you back so soon? Did you miss Great Paxford too much? Are you alright? Where’s Nick?_ She’s quiet. When she finally speaks, she’s almost emotionless in her one-word answer. _Dead_.

* * *

It was a wordless agreement that she stay with you. You don’t want her to be alone and it seems like she’s fine with that. You’ve tucked her up in bed with a lot of blankets. It’s a cold night and you don’t want her freezing on top of everything else. She still hasn’t said much and you haven’t pushed her. You sit in bed and stare at the pages of your book, not taking anything in, and you start to wonder what this means. Will she want to move back to Great Paxford? Will she want to move back in with you?

You’re distracted from these questions by a gentle tap on your bedroom door followed by a whisper of your name. You tell her to come in and she asks if she can sit with you for a while. Of course she can. Anything you can do to help. She perches on the edge of your bed, but you’re not going to let her sit there shivering, so you encourage her under the covers and hold her hand. You’ve never seen her like this. It’s almost as if she doesn’t know what to feel.

She takes a deep breath and starts talking. She tells you that she feels guilty for leading him on, for letting him believe that she loved him when she knew she didn’t. She says that she’s devastated, but only as one would be about a close friend dying. It’s nothing compared to losing Connie. Her eyes water. You feel like a fool. How could you have forgotten.

You pull her into a hug and hear yourself making a suggestion. _Do you want to sleep in here?_ She nods tearfully and you both snuggle down into the warmth of your bed. She says it’s felt strange sleeping in a bed on her own again, she’s missed the presence of someone else as she falls asleep. You’re more than happy to be a presence, you tell her.

She smiles at you before curling up towards you, closing her eyes and whispering goodnight. You lie on your back, but turn your head to watch her drift off into a peaceful sleep. It all seems a bit mad to you. She crashed into your life, crashed out, and now she’s crashed back in again. You hope that’s all the crashing there’ll be, of any variety.

Her nose twitches and, when she shifts a little, her hand ends up resting on your shoulder. You know you should move it, but it’s gentle and comforting and you feel like she needs that contact. Once you’re happy that she’s sleeping well, you allow yourself to close your eyes.

* * *

You’ve never needed an alarm clock - your internal clock just seems to know when it’s time to wake up. And this morning is no different. The first thing you notice is a warmth all the way down your right-hand side and across your stomach. As you come to, you realise that the warmth is her. Somehow, overnight, you’ve managed to pull her close and her arm has made its way across your middle. Her hand on your shoulder has been replaced with her cheek and her breath is gently tickling your neck.

You think you might like to stay here forever, just you and her. But your stomach disagrees and you’re surprised that its loud rumble doesn’t stir her. Panic sets in as you try to think of a way to extricate yourself without waking her up. You can’t think of one. She’s holding on tight. You won’t be able to move without disturbing her. After indulging yourself in her proximity for another minute, you try your best to gently manoeuvre her off you.

No luck. She’s awake. And she’s smiling at you. A tired, morning smile. She sees how close you are and blushes a little as she pulls away.

You find your voice and tell her that she’s welcome to stay in bed for as long as she wants, but you need to find some nourishment. She grumbles and reluctantly lets you go and get ready.

Once you’ve eaten, you go back upstairs with two cups of tea, Boris following close behind. She’s still dozing and you wonder how well she slept last night. You whisper her name and a little nod tells you that she’s taking in what you’re saying, although she’s not opened her eyes. You place both cups down on the bedside table and Boris lies down by the bed protectively. How far he’s come from being rather hostile towards her in the beginning.

You get yourself comfortable again and pick up your book. She shifts towards you and sighs. It’s quite a surreal situation, but you wouldn’t change it for the world. You find her hand and hold on tight, watching as you see the corners of her lips twitch into an almost imperceptible smile.

* * *

Concentration is evading you as you stare at numbers on a page. It’s been just over a month since she returned and she’s nearly back on her feet. For at least a week, she was reluctant to even go out, but you didn’t push her. In her own time, she ventured outside and reintegrated into village life. And you were there with her every step of the way. It’s hit her harder than she’d expected, you think, but she’s doing a sterling job getting herself sorted. She’s been worried about not working, not earning money. You tell her that money may tight, but you would never let her leave because of it. Even so, she’s been searching for anything to bring in some funds, doing odd jobs here and there. What if she finds a teaching job elsewhere? You don’t think you could bear it if she left you again. Sometimes, her presence seems like the only thing that keeps you going.

You’re staring out over the field opposite your cottage and so you see her walk past the window before she gets through the front door. There’s a barely hidden smile on her face and you can’t wait to find out what’s caused it. As she opens the door, she calls your name. You stand up and walk around your desk, ending up perched on it while she takes off her coat and scarf. She stills and beams at you before blurting out that she’s got her old job back. The teacher who had replaced her is getting married to a lad from the village and she’ll be leaving at the end of this term. Her grin is so big that you worry she’ll do herself an injury. You lose yourself in her excitement for a second, then rush towards her and hug her tight.

Life’s circled back on itself and you couldn’t be happier. You pull back a little and hold her face in your hands, telling her that this is wonderful news and you’re so pleased for her. She’s laughing with joy and you just can’t help leaning forward and kissing her soundly.

She doesn’t pull back in shock, instead you do. Panic is on the verge of setting in, but seeing the smile still on her face quells your fear. She closes her eyes and kisses you back, and her hands are pulling you closer, and it’s gentle and soft and warm. And home.


End file.
